


When You're Feeling Reckless

by JakkuCrew (fromstars)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Ben Solo and his complex desire to have someone absolutely wreck him, Ben Solo is a Mess, Ben Solo is a service top and sub trust me on this, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Denial, Praise Kink, Pre-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Redeemed Ben Solo, Service Submission, Sexual Tension, apology fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22839127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromstars/pseuds/JakkuCrew
Summary: Ben’s gaze on him is so dark it’s suffocating, and Poe dimly registers that this close up, Ben smells good. Heady, warm, laced with smoked spices and a hint of cold space that sends a shiver down Poe’s spine. Ben dips his head low to snarl in Poe’s ear, breath hot on the scar he left on Poe’s cheek months ago.Poe can barely hear him over the roar of his pulse in his ears, and Ben leans into his hands, pressing closer. “If you want me on my knees, you’re going to have to be more convincing, Dameron.”Ben joins the Resistance somewhere during The Last Jedi. Poe Dameron isn't ready to forgive him just yet. But maybe he wants to be persuaded. Or maybe Ben wants to do the persuading.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Ben Solo, Poe Dameron/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	When You're Feeling Reckless

**Author's Note:**

> this AU doesn't care about anything that happened in The Rise of Skywalker and handwaves in the general direction of The Last Jedi. Thank you.

Poe doesn’t know when it starts, exactly, but he thinks he can still taste the salt of Crait on his lips when it does. Ben Solo joins the Resistance — and begins an unwavering standoff with him. 

Most recently, Poe’s spent an hour pushing back on Ben’s tactical suggestions in the middle of a meeting. They go in circles, Poe pointing out where they’re going to do the most damage, and Ben criticizing another detail of the plan. He can afford to be overly critical; the General isn’t sending him or any of the other force users on this mission. It’s been weeks and all of them are focused on training and kriffing meditating in Ajan Kloss’ jungles, and not a damn one of them has gotten back into the fight. Rey and Finn aren’t in the meeting, and Ben deflects, insisting that they use him primarily as an intelligence asset. Poe starts imagining chucking every lightsaber he can find off the nearest cliff. The argument ends only because the General has a different meeting she needs to convene. By the time the meeting is over, Poe is the first out the door.

He escapes by heading straight for the auxiliary computer room on the Tantive IV. It’s a small room, slightly bigger than a closet, and usually empty. And while everyone knows it’s maintained by a T3 droid, it still looks like Poe might be doing something useful whenever he goes in. Of course, it’s all bullshit. Poe goes there precisely because he wants a moment that isn’t busy, but morale is shaky enough that the pretense still matters. 

There was a time when Poe could hop into a ship whenever he needed to clear his head, but now he has to consider clearances, safety, fuel stores. Every flight has to count. So he doesn’t joy ride. The closest he gets to the hum of his x-wing is the whirr of nearly ancient computers running on low power. And while it’s more satisfying to pummel the circuits out of a sparring droid that he pretends is Ben, it also means he has to hit the fresher again before the day is over. Which he doesn’t have the time for. 

He’s only alone for a heartbeat. 

The door hisses open behind him, and Poe grimaces before turning around. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Ben demands, sweeping into the room. He gets close enough that Poe has to take a half step backwards to properly look him in the eye. It puts his back to the wall, pressing against the computer panels. It’s infuriating, and Poe knows he does it on purpose. The room is claustrophobic from the moment Ben steps in and the door snaps shut behind him. Poe wonders briefly if the added body heat in the room will force the cooling fans to kick up. He already feels warm, and the Tantive is a Clone Wars relic. Old ship computers always run hot. But part of him is convinced that this could very well be another bullshit force technique - make the room uncomfortable, set him on edge. Poe’s chest tightens, and he figures it’s because he’s lost his line of sight to the exit. What he can see is Ben’s shoulders - still in black, but thankfully without the stupid cape. 

“You want the list?” Poe says, rolling up his sleeves as he meets Ben’s hot glare. “Because we’re all getting pretty sick of your attitude on base.” 

“My attitude?” Ben says with a snort. It’s the closest Poe’s ever heard Ben to laughing. He looks haughtier than he does angry - somewhere between regal and dangerous. It’s magnified by the fact that Ben’s scar bisects his frown, cutting under his cheekbone. It occurs to Poe that he wore a helmet in place of a crown for years, but holds himself like they were one and the same thing. Even without crown or helmet like now, he still holds himself with princely pride. It’s infuriating. “--What about your attitude? Every time I suggest something, you shoot it down. Even when you know I’m right.”

“Oh,” Poe says wryly, “—you mean you’ve noticed that I don’t bend over backwards being nice to a guy who tortured me?” 

“We were on opposite sides of a war,” Ben snaps. He looks away, studying the blinking lights of the computer panels behind Poe. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and he swallows. Poe finds himself staring at the long line of Ben’s throat, and at the spot where his scar that dips below his collar in an angry, red gash. He wonders if it stops there, or if it continues down the broad plane of his chest. Either way, Poe hopes it hurt. 

“What did you expect? Room service?” The tone is dismissive, but his expression isn’t, and Poe imagines for a second he might actually be embarrassed. It would be a start. 

“No,” Poe shakes his head. Poe isn’t afraid of Ben, doesn’t think he deserves his nightmares, but he does resent him. Resents having his mission fail. And that’s what infuriates him, really. Failure. “But a little fucking remorse wouldn’t kill you.” 

Ben swallows. He meets Poe’s eyes again with a stark expression that Poe can’t place. “Remorse won’t change anything,” he says quietly. And like that, the imperiousness slips away, stripping Ben down to something more raw. It throws Poe off kilter, makes the room feel even smaller than it is. A fan kicks on, and the blast of cool air slides across the back of Poe’s neck. Goosebumps raise up on his arm at the sudden temperature change. 

Ben exhales and Poe can feel his breath slide across his skin. “I’m here to work. I can’t undo the past.” 

“Ever thought about multitasking?” Poe asks, clenching his fists. “You know, a little bit of groveling might do wonders. Maybe then people might think you’re worth something.”

It has the intended effect. Ben’s face twists into fury. 

He moves so fast in response that Poe only has the time to throw up his hands to block him, thinking he’s finally pushed the other man far enough to start a fight. But no blow lands, and instead one of Ben’s hands lands with a thud against the wall behind him, his boots toe to toe with Poe’s. There’s less than a blaster length between them now, and Poe’s hands are flat against Ben’s chest, keeping them from colliding. In the peripheral of his vision, he sees Ben’s hand flexing against the slick paneling. Ben’s breathing comes fast and sharp his chest rising and falling under Poe’s palms, and this is so different from before, from the cold calculation and the impersonal disgust of Kylo Ren that Poe feels like he’s spun upside-down in his x-wing. Poe’s stomach flips, but the sensation isn’t unpleasant. Ben’s gaze on him is so dark it’s suffocating, and Poe dimly registers that this close up, Ben smells good. Heady, warm, laced with smoked spices and a hint of cold space that sends a shiver down Poe’s spine. 

Ben dips his head low to snarl in Poe’s ear, breath hot on the scar he left on Poe’s cheek months ago. Poe can barely hear him over the roar of his pulse in his ears, and Ben leans into his hands, pressing closer. “If you want me on my knees, you’re going to have to be more convincing, Dameron.” 

Poe’s laugh shatters the tension. It’s uneven and sticks in the back of his throat, and it sounds more breathless than he wants to be. He swallows, closes his eyes for a second, which he knows is stupid, because it leaves him vulnerable. “Force,” he manages. Poe bites his bottom lip involuntarily, watches as Ben’s eyes narrow, tracking his movement.

Ben doesn’t move, so Poe tilts his head away, needing more air than there is in the room. The second he does, he feels the cool air of the fans again, and it occurs to Poe he’s not afraid in the slightest. If anything, he feels...in control. It’s Ben who is unmoored, who seems like he’s swallowing back fear stretched so tight it could snap at any moment. But fear of what, Poe isn’t sure. 

Ben leans closer yet again, mirroring Poe’s movements. Oh, Poe thinks. There it is. It’s not that they want to kill each other anymore, or that Ben is afraid of the fight or Poe’s standing among the Resistance, or even of revenge, but — _hell_. Poe snorts. 

“Wouldn’t you like that?” Poe asks, amused, gripping Ben’s shirt tightly, bunching the fabric in his fists. Ben inhales sharply. Poe doesn’t wait for the answer - it’s already written all over Ben’s face, hunger laced with indignation. It’s need, and perhaps even contrition. And it claws through Poe’s stomach, spreading into something Poe doesn’t want to recognize. Poe shoves Ben back, fast and unforgiving, his hands never leaving the taller man’s chest. Ben hits the other wall beside them hard, his skull snapping against the metal with a resounding thud. He has the decency to look surprised, but not the decency to look cowed. Poe shifts, presses his forearm against Ben’s throat, hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to choke him. Ben makes an indignant hiss, glaring down at Poe, and Poe can’t help but notice his cheeks are flushed, his hair is sticking to his skin. Ben’s lips are parted slightly, his eyes blown out into darkness — 

Poe tears himself away, feeling like he’s just burned his skin against an ignited saber, his nerves on fire. He shoulders hard past Ben on the way to the door. He pauses before leaving the room, and then says, “—But you’d have to earn it.” 

The door slides shut behind him. 

* * *

They don’t speak for days. 

It’s a deafening tension that tugs at the back of Ben’s mind whenever he sees Poe. Poe, who has been pointedly ignoring him; only meeting him with passing civility and disinterest. A white-hot thread of anger settles into Ben’s stomach the longer the charade goes on, and by the fourth day, he’s lost his patience and his temper. The worst part of it is that he knows Poe has been making a point; that he’s proving something to Ben. 

And that Poe knows he is winning. 

He doesn’t follow Poe anywhere this time. Maybe because he knows it won’t go his way, and maybe because he knows Poe will just avoid him further. When he finds himself fed up, Ben posts himself outside Poe’s office door on the Tantive IV. It’s the Captain’s office, which Poe has settled into easily, like he belongs there. All things considered, he does belong there. He is Leia’s right hand man and most trusted soldier. Poe is comfortable in his power, Ben thinks, he is confident and cocky. Groomed for command. He is the best pilot in the Resistance - even if that's only because Ben isn’t cleared to fly. Flight clearances would require more trust than anyone is willing to give him. 

Ben fights back the taste of bitterness in his mouth as he waits for Dameron to return to the command office. According to the base schedule, the commander should be leaving a strategy meeting at any moment. A meeting that Ben was pointedly not invited to, having not earned the trust of enough people on base. What he has earned, Ben knows, is to be treated like a faulty blaster - deadly, useful, and with the potential to backfire at any moment. 

It’s certainly how Poe treats him. 

Poe slows his easy stride the moment he sees Ben outside his office door. His expression doesn’t register his displeasure, but Ben watches with interest as his posture changes, and Poe tenses. Underneath layers of gregariousness and charm, Poe is a soldier. It’s amusing how much the Resistance loves him; how much the world at large overlooks how deadly he is - not just in the air, but also on the ground. 

Ben sees it all. 

“What do you want?” Poe demands as he pulls up to his office door. He doesn’t key in, and instead just glares at Ben. For a moment, Ben hesitates - he’d planned for Poe to enter his office first before he started talking. Even if the hall is empty, it feels too exposed. He gives Poe an indignant look. 

“You know why I’m here.” Ben says. Poe has to know - he’s just pretending not to. Ben rankles at the thought. Poe is going to make him say it. Going to push him. And he doesn't have the leverage to push back.

“I don’t.” Poe looks away from him, keys in his access to his office. 

Ben swallows a snarl in response. Instead, he grits his teeth. “I came to talk.”

“What do you want?” Poe says, pushing past Ben. “Whatever it is, you should’ve said it in the last intel meeting.” 

Of course, they’ve been avoiding speaking to each other in the meetings Ben has been allowed into. There hasn’t been anything to say that Ben would want to address in front of half the Resistance. The last thing he wants is a committee on his behavior, on his rehabilitation and how much he has sufficiently proven himself. But of course, Poe is unwilling to listen to him in private, which makes the entire exercise pointless. 

Ben scoffs. “Never mind. This is a waste of time.” He turns to double back - to get far away from this idiot pilot and his even more idiotic demands. He doesn’t move fast enough. 

“Coward,” Poe loudly says to his back. 

Ben freezes. For a second he feels every nerve on fire with anger, hot and demanding. He’s meant to be reformed, and not tapping into the dark side. But his mind reacts so quickly that he can’t banish the thought of roughly gripping Poe’s jaw, holding his smart mouth in place for once. The only thing keeping him from doing so is his newfound guilt - the nagging conscience that says he shouldn’t be giving the man any further bruises after their initial meeting. Not when he has something to prove about his right to be there.

Ben wrangles his fury down to something more manageable. Controlled anger, he tells himself, is still progress. “I am not a coward,” he hisses, stalking forwards. 

Poe doesn’t flinch. The knowledge that he doesn’t settles deep in Ben’s mind - as angry as Dameron is, he doesn’t fear him. It’s...interesting. Poe leans onto his desk casually, and meets Ben’s gaze with a level one of his own. He raises his chin slightly, and for a moment Ben entertains the baseless idea that Poe can also read his thoughts, that Poe knows he wants to tilt Poe’s head back, wants to expose the length of his neck to him, _wants—_

But Poe can’t read minds, he tells himself. 

“Prove it.” Poe says, his hands pressing against the flat top of his desk behind him. “Or get out and stop wasting my time.” 

“You’re a fool for thinking anything I could say would change what I’ve done.” Ben says, stepping in close to Poe. “It won’t fix anything.” 

“No,” Poe breathes. “It won’t. But it’s a start.” 

The images flood Ben’s mind unbidden, a torrential wave of want and desire that pulls him undertow fast. He is drowning, drowning, and then he realizes the feelings aren’t only his own, the thoughts belong to Dameron too —sharp and clear. 

He tastes Poe before he even touches him; the sensation is both memory and vision, and Ben wishes he could tell Dameron he isn’t searching for it. The images burn him from the inside out, and Ben almost wants to laugh that this is what the force shows him now. There’s only one thing he is certain Poe Dameron wants from him, and it isn’t words. 

Ben cups Poe’s jaw, follows the vision as closely as he can - he moves to kiss Poe hard, loses himself when Poe kisses back. It doesn’t take much to lift Poe to him, in part because he meets no resistance as the other man leans up on the balls of his feet reach him. He thinks that this is proof that the Resistance’s beloved pilot is a fool —but he’s not willing to say as much. It takes a second before Poe’s hands scrabble for his hips, hooking a finger through the loop of his belt to yank him in. Poe’s tongue teases his mouth, and Ben sinks a hand into Poe’s curls in response. There’s a strain in Poe’s neck from leaning up to reach Ben’s mouth, and he adjusts, bending closer, his knee between Poe’s legs. They fall into alignment with each other quickly, and Poe bites down on Ben’s bottom lip sharply when Ben tries to consume too much, too fast. It stings, and Ben finds himself electrified with need. 

Poe angles away from his mouth, but he fists the fabric of Ben’s shirt in his hand, his breath hot against Ben’s cheek. The kiss ends too soon, but the wanting doesn’t waiver. Poe presses up against his thigh, arching against the desk. A soft sound escapes past Poe’s lips when Ben continues kissing his jaw, his neck, the notch of Poe’s collarbone that he tongues. His hand slides from Poe’s hair down to the base of his skull, his fingers pressing hard against Poe’s spine. 

Poe doesn’t push him away. Instead he tilts his head back, giving Ben easier access. Something in the back of his mind whispers that he should say something, that he came to apologize to Poe, even though it can’t be enough, and even though he will never stop being a monster. The thoughts are drowned when Poe yanks on his shirt, gasping when Ben’s teeth slide across his skin. Poe grinds into him, and Ben can’t think beyond the heat of Poe’s erection pressing into his thigh. A fit of fury clenches in Ben’s stomach when he realizes they are still clothed, and that Poe hasn’t stopped rolling his hips. He wants to tear into Poe, to fix the problem, but then Poe makes another sound in the back of his throat that Ben first wants to turn into something louder and more reckless. 

Instead, it ends with Poe’s ragged laugh of surprise and annoyance. 

“You’re still not on your knees,” he says, releasing his grip on Ben’s shirt. Poe flattens his hand against Ben’s chest, dark eyes studying Ben with disappointment. No, disapproval. This wasn’t what Poe wanted. _It isn’t good enough, it’s not —_

Ben swallows, keenly aware of Poe’s gravity, the weight of his body pressed against Poe’s palm. They are hip to hip and Poe’s other hand is sliding up the expanse of his side, his fingers tracing the edges of Ben’s scar over his tunic. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, Poe mapping the topography of mended flesh in teasing circles. Another image - half sensation - floods Ben’s mind, and the promise of Poe’s tongue unravels him. Ben’s gone too far now to avoid falling into the Resistance pilot’s orbit. 

Of course, he doesn’t want to. 

He wants to fight Poe; wants to push back with ferocity, but instead, he simply scoffs. “I thought I had to earn it,” he reminds Poe, rolling his eyes. 

“You do,” Poe says, looking more and more chafed by his own rules by the moment. 

Ben is tempted to lean forward again to bite at Poe’s bottom lip, but instead his gaze dips down to Poe’s hand at his chest. The pilot is winning this game with him, and he hates losing. But losing a single hand to win the sabbac game… _that_ he can do. 

“If I’m on my knees, I’m going to be doing something useful,” Ben says, covering Poe’s hand with his own before pulling it away from his chest. Poe’s hand falls to his side noiselessly. For a moment Poe doesn’t fully react, and then Ben sinks to his knees slowly, his robes hitting the floor in a pool around him. He is careful and deliberate - watching for Poe’s reaction, for his approval. 

The room is painfully quiet as Ben breathes in and out for a count, defiantly staring up at Poe. He half thinks Poe wouldn’t be wrong to knee him in the chest. He’s also disappointed when Poe doesn’t. The other half of him is mesmerized by the way Poe’s chest rises and falls in anticipation; the flash of his skin just above his belt when he moves, leaning against his desk. 

“Not talking,” Ben says, pushing at Poe’s belt until it falls open in his hands. He lets the weight of the buckle drop from his hands, and then pauses, waiting. 

_“Oh,”_ Poe says.

He says nothing else, but Ben watches the way Poe licks his lips before biting down on his bottom lip in an imitation of restraint. This is him leaping, Ben knows. He’s seen Poe do it dozens of times and he’s not surprised Poe would do it now. He is lethal, and the commander has a barely concealed death wish. It’s the only plausible explanation Ben can come up with for how easily the decision seems to be made. 

Poe shifts to make room for Ben at his feet — unspoken permission. 

Ben doesn’t waste time. He kisses at Poe’s covered leg impatiently, before pulling his pants down past his hips. The fabric sinks, and Ben bites the inside of Poe’s thigh, palm at the strain of the Commander’s erection against his briefs. Poe moans, sliding back against the desk, and Ben grabs for his hips to steady him with one hand. With his other hand he peels away Poe’s underwear, dragging it down over the curve of his ass. Poe’s cock freed, he shoves aside an irrational anger that even exposed and wanting, Poe is still perfect. Still golden and untouchable. Nothing like him at all. 

Whatever the commander thinks of him, Ben thinks he can be passable — at least enough to make up for the lack of options on the base. It’s been years since he’s been the one to do this, but he remembers it well enough. He is serviceable, and that has to be something. Ben licks a stripe up Poe’s leg, his cheek brushing Poe’s dick with a teasing slide. Poe makes an irate sound in response, buries his hands into Ben’s hair and tugs back sharply. The gesture is hard enough that it jerks Ben’s gaze upwards towards Poe’s face. 

Ben gasps in pleasure he can’t restrain, no matter how furious the gesture makes him. He grits his teeth for a moment - there is some finesse that could be used here, finesse that the flyboy is interrupting - but Poe doesn’t let go of him. Instead, Poe studies Ben for a moment - reading something in his expression that Ben would rather not dwell upon. Ben’s nostrils flare as Poe holds him still.

“Don’t tease,” Poe commands, waspish. He loosens his grip slightly, and with a free hand, Poe runs his thumb over Ben’s bottom lip encouragingly. “You’re being useful,” he directs, coaxing Ben to part his lips, to open his mouth to him. As stubborn as he feels, Ben is pliant to the suggestion, and eager when two of Poe’s fingers slip into his mouth. He sucks down, running his tongue over the underside of Poe’s index, letting his teeth scrape against knuckle. This earns him the pleased scratch of Poe’s nails over his scalp and Ben surges forwards with a grunt. 

“You like when I do this,” Poe says, amused. 

Ben doesn’t choke, but Poe presses down on his tongue, and Ben swallows thickly over the pressure. It is a test, he thinks, and there is no latitude for failure. Poe’s expression waivers for a moment - and fear shreds Ben from the inside that Poe will stop, that the reflection in his gaze is _pity_ — but then the corner of his mouth curls up into smug satisfaction. 

“Good,” Poe says, soft enough that Ben can barely hear him. The word sends a fissure of heat down Ben’s spine, and he tries to ground himself. He breathes in through his nose steadily, ignoring the throb of his own erection straining in his pants. Ben forces the world back into focus, past the distortion of sensation and pleasure, and finds himself watching the white bead of sticky pre-cum sliding down Poe’s cock. _Useful. Good._

Poe withdraws his hand, his fingers still wet and shining, and glosses them over Ben’s plush mouth. When he finishes, Poe tugs Ben forwards, and Ben swirls his tongue over the head of Poe’s dick. He hears Poe hiss in response, hips jerking up to his mouth. Ben pushes Poe back into the desk with his hands, which elicits a frustrated groan and another warning tug of his hair that jolts him. Arousal flushes Poe’s cheeks, and when Ben hums in pleasure around his cock, he shudders. Ben takes Poe further into his mouth, wraps a hand around the base of Poe’s cock to stroke him. It’s not hard to know what else Poe wants, and Ben relaxes his grip on Poe’s hips. The usual swell of conflicting emotions and echoing thoughts settle in Ben’s mind as Poe takes control, moves his head, begins to fuck his mouth steadily. 

Poe curses and bites down hard on his bottom lip. 

The noises Poe makes in the back of his throat fuel Ben, make him greedy for more. Poe arches against his desk. His hips jerk, and Ben swallows Poe down, chokes and moans when Poe’s hand slides to the back of his neck in encouragement. Tension builds in Poe’s thighs, but it’s the steady stream of _yes_ , and _more_ that he can’t seem to contain that lets Ben know he is close as he thrusts into his mouth. Poe rasps something that could be his name, or another curse, and Ben strokes Poe faster. He trembles, panting, and Ben’s only regret is that he can’t also watch Poe’s face overwhelmed with desire. Instead, he can only hear Poe’s breathing quicken, the sob of need for his release. 

There is no warning — Poe fists his hair, pulls, and comes with a loud moan. He loses himself to the unrelenting heat of Ben’s mouth, shuddering as Ben swallows. Ben strokes him through his climax, pushing him to writhe under his touch. He braces Poe with a hand at his hip, keeping him upright as Poe rides the aftershocks of his pleasure. 

A thick whine escapes from Poe as Ben teases his tongue over him, and he twitches, over-stimulated and sensitive. It’s only when Poe lets go of his hair, and pushes Ben back by the shoulders firmly that Ben becomes aware of himself again. Blinking, Ben steadies his breathing, fights off the sudden head rush that makes him dizzy. His knees hurt from the hard floor of the office, and he aches, still untouched even by himself. _He hadn’t earned it. Poe hadn’t said —_

Ben looks up. 

Having caught his breath, Poe is already putting himself back together. If he is bothered by the messiness of it all, he hides it well enough that Ben can’t tell. He moves casually, pulling up his pants and buckling his belt with a loose limbed ease and confidence that makes something ugly claw into Ben, a thorny blackness that he fights to ignore. For a brief moment - between Poe fixing his belt and straightening his shirt - Ben feels furious with him, angry that he is hardly more than a character flaw of Poe’s; a lapse in judgment marked by Poe’s own impulsiveness. That Poe is still too perfect, too good. 

But Poe bends down when he finishes righting himself, his mouth close to Ben’s ear. 

“That’s a good start,” he murmurs encouragingly. Then Poe hesitates for a moment, before reaching out, smoothing down the dark mess of Ben’s hair to fix it. The gesture banishes the tendrils of anger in Ben’s head, replacing them with something else he can’t place. Poe lingers, excruciatingly gentle in contrast to his earlier touch.

He looks at Ben, considering. Ben’s eyes flutter closed at Poe’s hands, and he knows that his own desire is still readily apparent. They are on a precipice of something, and Ben feels the instability in his gut, like he has spun out while piloting a TIE. 

“Very good,” Poe repeats. But Ben catches the expression of his face when he says it, recognizes the surprise Poe seems to have at his own words. 

_Not good enough_. 

“I should take care of _—,”_ Poe starts, then stops. He shakes his head, and withdraws his hand. Ben stares rigidly at the floor, avoiding the pilot’s too open face. He doesn’t want to see what he is certain will be there. 

“I should get back to work.” Poe says finally, exhaustion weighting his voice. 

He doesn’t look Ben in the eyes as he sidesteps him, rounding the corner of his office desk. Ben rises to his knees slowly, and says nothing else while Poe’s back is turned. He smooths his robes down, and bites the inside of his cheek, hoping he doesn’t run into any nosy Resistance fighters as he leaves Poe’s office. 

By the time Poe is seated at his desk, Ben is gone from the room. 

Not good enough. _Yet._

**Author's Note:**

>  _Why you got it in for me?  
>  Is it 'cause I bring you to your knees?_  
> — Tempt My Trouble, Bishop Briggs


End file.
